


In Tevinter

by illegible



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Can be read slash or gen, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, written for a prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 07:27:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13946559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illegible/pseuds/illegible
Summary: Cullen and Dorian go to Minrathous together for a mission.





	In Tevinter

Vel Exingus has been identified as one of the top Venatori recruiters in the Tevinter Imperium. Although thankfully _not_ a member of the magisterium, he remains a respected altus with substantial influence. According to Dorian, he’s also a man who craves immediate gratification. This is someone who would use lightning to catch fish, eat well for a time, then complain because all life in his favorite pond had been extinguished. This is someone who recklessly and fervently pursues blood magic while keeping himself just discreet enough to avoid consequence. His family ordinarily carries too much weight for legal penalties, but open alignment with the Venatori is one step beyond tolerable.

And so the Inquisiton has been granted access to Minrathous in order to apprehend Exingus. Archon Radonis will not approve any state effort to extradite the man due to political implications. Supporting the Inquistion, a foreign power affiliated with the White Divine, would create outcry within Tevinter and risk usurpation. However, with an ongoing war against the Qunari there is no national desire for new enemies. And even in Tevinter, a hole in the Veil is not the most popular recent development.

To demonstrate a commitment to neutrality, Inquisitor Herah Adaar will be permitted to send a team of ten to conduct a manhunt without obstruction. The Inquisitor herself will not be participating due to her own ancestry and obstacles it might provoke. Instead, she sends Commander Cullen Rutherford of Honleath with a squadron of eight seasoned templars, accompanied by Minrathous native Lord Dorian Pavus of the Vyrantium Circle.

They will be the most qualified party to conduct such a retrieval of course. Nonetheless, when Cullen learns of the decree it sits in his stomach like lead.

***

Tevinter is hot, but lacking in humidity. Wind curls off the Nocen Sea to keep things bearable, but it does nothing to alleviate Cullen’s certainty that he will burn before the return journey.

Their approach by ship comes steady. Inevitable.

Minrathous is a towering metropolis, gilded and arching against the sun. It bears sculptures of the Old Gods (blighted creatures, now), celestial symbols and row after row of columns. They remind him of the ribs of some awful beast.

Dorian watches his city and sighs, eyes half-lidded. Cullen puts it somewhere between affection and bitterness. What he sees nearly makes him shudder, because beyond the architecture waits a living place overrun with those who could overpower his company in a blink.

“They’re not all mages, you know,” says Pavus quietly. “If you look there, working the docks. The slaves are marked for houses they serve, but only a few are wealthy enough to own them. Most will be soporati. People like you.”

“All of them at the mercy of mages,” replies Cullen, gripping the bulwark tightly. Nonetheless, he scans the crowd.

A hand on his forearm. “Commander,” says Dorian, “everyone is too involved in their own affairs to care about us one way or another. Oh, they might be curious,” he adds at the knight’s skeptical expression, “but we’re irrelevant to anyone who isn’t involved in criminal nonsense. As long as you don’t go picking fights with random businessmen and tourists, you’ll be fine.”

The crowd is made of people. Hauling fish, maintaining ships, carting wares to and fro.

Cullen nods, and keeps this at the front of his mind.

***

Enchanted lanterns ignite the streets at dusk. It is beautiful and nerve-racking at the same time.

“There must be fires,” comments Cullen, peering out at the balcony he refuses to stand on. Their villa is small, simple, and run by non-mages. Cullen isn’t sure if it’s a nod to foreign sensibility or an insult. “Even with frost spells, it’s too much. No mage can pay attention all the time.”

Dorian, in loose, violet robes that look far more appropriate for the weather than templar armor, snorts. He’d rapped at the Commander’s door offering tea and a briefing. Earlier, Cullen might have refused.

“Only an idiot who deserves it sets his house on fire,” comments Dorian. “If it’s any consolation however, we’ve been developing devices to harness lightning instead. So much safer.”

Cullen laughs, mirthless.

Dorian pushes a cup into his hands. “Do _try_ to remember people live here every day. It isn’t a perfect life even for magisters, but we won’t be destroying ourselves in a fit of arcane stupidity. Our Southern neighbors would be overcome with glee,” the mage smirks, “and we can’t have that.”

Cullen exhales, shaking his head, and drinks.

“An empire run on spite. Wonderful.”

***

People stare at them. Some are intrigued, some disdainful, some hostile.

“Mages are free here,” comments Dorian as they walk down cobblestone roads, “and they suspect our fine company would love nothing more than to imprison them and rip their souls out. Your reputation is somewhat barbaric, up north.”

The liberati, newly freed, don’t look up when they walk. They wear simple, often ill-fitting clothes and hurry across streets as if afraid (or ashamed) of being seen. Magisters’ servants are more attentive as they perform errands, but there is an empty quality there. _People made into tools,_ Cullen thinks. Enacting a function that has little to do with them, their only choice to obey or brave the consequences. No promise of ever directing their own lives.

Then there are the servus publicus. Whores and street cleaners, cart-drivers and animal-minders. Dorian’s gaze runs off them like rain on glass. It’s as if they aren’t really there at all.

“What an ugly world,” whispers Cullen. Dorian turns back sharply, and Cullen can’t meet his eyes. “You misunderstand,” he continues no louder, “None of it should be this way. Not here, not at home, not… life isn’t meant to be hopeless. Pretending only some people count.”

Dorian finds his elbow, then his hand. “Do get out of your head, Commander,” he says lightly, “or you’re liable to step in something unpleasant.”

***

Cullen doesn’t tell anyone about the nightmares. He gags himself before going to bed as a precaution. If he wakes up sweating, shaking, too terrified to close his eyes too terrified to find someone watching from the shadows to find the magic prickling across his skin crawling into his brain again until there is no room left inside and he can’t breathe can’t move can’t speak if their enemies knew they would come for him.

But Dorian only says he looks terrible. Dorian offers an herbal medicine that can knock him out “quicker than you can say ‘blood magic’”. And when Cullen hesitates, the mage sighs before offering to check in every so often. He has trouble sleeping through the night anyway. It might as well be useful.

Cullen thanks him.

***

Exingus has sacrificed one of his most noted followers, taken his home. Through a messy, gore-strewn ritual he managed to amass a small legion of demons to guard him. These are shades and wisps predominantly, but several Rage demons as well. Pride remains with him however, and the man actually has the gall to grin. In synchronicity they declare joy at an opportunity to serve the Elder One by slaying some of Inquisitor Adaar’s most beloved pets.

When Exingus begins to falter, he offers himself to Pride. None of them can prevent the ensuing transformation, and they are forced to perform an execution instead of an arrest.

Breathing hard, the air is saturated with smoke and lyrium, rot and sweat. Dizzyingly so, although his sword remains steady.

“Cullen,” says Dorian. There is an arm around him, turning him away. “Come on. Lets get out of this ghastly place.”

***

Minrathous templars take over the scene. There are no thanks, no commendations, no acknowledgment of service on either side. Cullen wonders if he looks as tired as he feels, then decides he doesn’t care.

Dorian doesn’t leave his side, prattles on about trivialities longer than the knight even thought possible. At some point, Cullen finds himself sitting heavily on a stairwell some blocks from their quarters. The rest continue ahead at his insistence. It’s nauseatingly warm even at night here, and he needs to collect himself.

Pavus, lingering, goes quiet and sits beside him.

“You did it,” says the mage eventually. “The world hasn’t ended.”

Cullen exhales. After a moment, he leans in against Dorian’s shoulder.

“You’re right,” he murmurs, “it hasn’t.”


End file.
